


No Mans Land

by Chu



Series: Ruby Threads [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Drunk Grantaire, Enjolras Has Feelings, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, First chapter is lacking in the romance department but I promise it'll be there!, Grantaire Is Bad At Feelings, I have a series in mind if I can keep this rolling, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Oblivious Enjolras, Possible Courferre in the background, Red String of Fate, Romantic Soulmates, Sad Grantaire, Winter, musings, possibly anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 12:55:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21208880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chu/pseuds/Chu
Summary: It was always entirely mutual between them, wasn't it? The anger, the frustration, the disdain; all of it. Somewhere in their almost-friendship they had silently agreed to live like this, each the foil to the other. Why then did Enjolras find himself so frequently struggling with uneasiness? Something else that felt a good deal too much like guilt, and at times even a heavy dose of longing?If things were mutual, surely it shouldn't always feel quite so terrible?The story of two men, not quite friends, not quite enemies, not quite sure how to handle one another and how they struggle on together through the months that led up to the building of the barricade and that terrible, tragic June.Falling in love before the Barricades arise.[With the intention of following this up with a second story; modern reincarnation.]





	No Mans Land

**Author's Note:**

> As this is my very first foray into the world of writing for Les Mis, I would like to say thank you for giving this a chance! It has been a goodly while since I wrote any manner of fiction with an aim to post it, so I am hoping that this ends up with decent pacing and flow.
> 
> The setting I have selected is some months before the June Rebellion. Still early on in the year, perhaps January still or February. 
> 
> Of course the characters and setting for this chapter are not mine, and there shall be no profit made - general disclaimer. 
> 
> I had no end of trouble working out how I wanted to describe the boys. There are lovely fan arts, the movie cast, the stage. When I read the book, I had recently seen the stage production and I believe that is where my visuals for Combeferre and Courfeyrac come from. I feel it fits this piece anyway, but I will continue to search for other resources and information!

It was in each and every way an entirely mutual understanding; that was what Enjolras told himself, his lithe form draped in an attitude of picturesque despondency against the smooth wood of the window frame in the upper floor of Le Cafe Musain. Everything between them was perfectly, if undeniably precariously balanced. It was mutual displeasure at finding themselves sharing one another’s company. A wry, cynical smile twisting one set of lips, a frown down-turning the corners of the other. It was mutual irritation, anger, disdain. A set of ideals that would never, _could_ never align or in any way settle into a state of mutual acceptance. In truth, it seemed to be an overwhelmingly mutual desire between the pair of them to maintain the desolate, dangerous and incomprehensible spread of no-mans-land spread between their positions. Open like a gaping maw preventing the mutually unrepentant pair from ever drawing closer to one another or any manner of understanding. Even the smallest step forward was met with an instant retaliation, alive with hostility and aggression. Their distance had to be preserved. Their precarious balance had to be maintained.

Enjolras, golden as he was and filled with the burning flame of revolution and change would hold himself aloof, hold himself briefly above the drunken; often slurred words that dripped with mockery and cynicism. Aloof for a time, carried by the flames of his own judgemental ardour before delivering a stinging, vitriolic rebuke, volatile in his reaction to endless and pervasive criticism. In his turn, what of Grantaire? Well, any attempt at parle, any motion Enjolras had made to hold out his hand in a gesture of peace, extending an olive branch as it were instead of words of war, was met with a harsh laugh, a jeering salute to ‘_Apollo, come to converse with the mere mortals_’ and finally a damning and absolute dismissal of whatever words the leader of Les amis l’Abaisse may have had to say. It put paid most swiftly to any attempts to allow peace to flow smoothly between the two of them, and with increasing frequently would result in Grantaire finding himself banished with ardent dislike from their number, dismissed from the group and ordered to remain henceforth absent from their collective. Yet somehow, for some reason no matter how frequently he was sent off, the next meeting or at the latest the one after would find him there amongst their number once again with not a word to refuse him being spoken. 

A sudden lashing of rain against the thin glass panes that separated Enjolras from the howling wind of winter caused a tightening of the young man’s brows, his attention focusing again where it had been wandering before through the somewhat melancholy foothills that made up his thoughts regarding Graintaire and the mutually unpleasant relationship the two of them shared with one another. It was certainly a relationship unlike those he shared with others. Grantaire and he? Well, they were not friends, not in any true sense of the word. Outside of the weekly meetings that brought them to the Cafe Musain the pair never spent any time together, never found the time or a reason to converse; Grantaire, Enjolras mused with a slightly sardonic twist to his beautiful lips never really spent enough time sober for a genuine conversation. The twist became a grimace. That thought was an uncharitable one, and beneath him, in truth. However with the manner in which the evening, the flow of his fervent speeches had been disrupted he had found himself left with a lingering dark shadow dampening the usually passionate flames of his beliefs. 

For all that Grantaire was the one soul that joined the meetings of Les amis l’Abaisse who could not be in truth called a full member of their collective, Enjolras had to admit that he was also the one who was, with alarming frequency in truth, able to cause him to see the folly of some of his ideas and ideals. Grantaire could be counted on to illuminate the flaws which had the potential to undermine his good intentions were they to be allowed to go unaddressed and even perhaps cause damage to his most longed for goals. There was a place for query and criticism among their number and while it may cause him in the moment erupt into a plume of indignant displeasure, Enjolras could not deny the benefits that came from Grantaire's questioning of him. Only, Oh Lord how he wished that the drunken sot could find it in himself to preserve his manners at times! To find himself capable of addressing his concerns - Ha! _Concerns_! While that may have been the case for some small number of the objections that were raised, in truth, Enjolras could not believe the majority to be anything more than a _perverse_ and _inflammatory_ attempt to leave him irate, angered and robbed of his focus and direction. Where he would often try to merely ignore Grantaire, it seemed at times that the dark haired cynic would push, push and push further until there was nothing Enjolras could do but address him directly with the full force of his irritation and damn his name for all the words he spoke. Damn the man _heartily_ for his persistent desire to utterly derail the course of the meetings. Curse his unsavoury need to make sure that any amount of planning that Enjolras undertook would out of necessity be tossed aside when Grantaire chose to put an end to sense and coherency. 

How long had their twisted waltz been playing out between them? How long had they failed to step neatly in time with one another, elegant steps falling in perfect rhythm to their lives melodies the way he was able to step neatly beside his closest friends? How long had they instead crashed, collided, stepped upon each others feet with something that could have been malice but could perhaps have been ignorance instead. The failure in a way most absolute, to comprehend one another, understand, or sometimes even see. It was difficult to know for sure if it was choice or happenstance. The way things happened between them, the escalation from the flying sparks of irritation to the all encompassing flames of wrath, was one part of his life's choreography that Enjolras could not claim to full understand. From one to the other, it was a sudden surge, the flames were fanned and they swelled into a magnificent inferno. The result was brilliant, intoxicating and ultimately awe inspiring. However, in actuality more often than not Enjolras found himself woefully incapable to pinpoint the moment that one became the other, the moment the fire of his reformist passion became a violent weapon, a burning blade rather than the brilliant but harmless illumination of his cause. The instant where his words shifted from merely impassioned to overtly cruel was lost on him, lost and overlooked. It led him to say things that in the quiet hours of the late night or the lonely hours as dawn slowly spread its fingers up from the horizon, he could only regret. 

When the rain outside once again lashed against the window, the sound near enough a threat of the glass itself breaking, the young man found himself at last shaken from his reverie. Stretching very slowly, his strong, proud shoulders arching back for a moment Enjolras pushed himself away from the window, away from the melancholy trail of his thoughts that found their place oh so comfortably amidst the whirl of falling rain. It was a point of frustration to him that their meetings, once a source of passion and delight for him, now quite often concluded with his mood in a state far less brilliant. No longer the burnished glow of gold and fire, but the soft, dull gleam of tarnished silver instead. Of something forgotten, something cast aside. Something which… he could not quite put his finger on. Could not? Or would not? The thought stung, and with a scowl adorning his Grecian features he turned his back on the world outside.

There were only three of their number remaining in Le Cafe Musain that night. Around the room the signs of their meeting were clear however. Chairs were pushed back, left at awkward twisted angles where people had risen from tables, tables themselves pushed backwards, to the side, out of line with one another. His papers were strewn everywhere. A stark display of white and black, a flurry of documents depicting his plans and ideas, designs for pamphlets to hand out to the people all across the city, redrafts and redrafts of the same. They lay scattered all across a number of wooden tabletops, some now adorned the floor, speaking their messages to the worn wood alone, the marks of boots tainting the otherwise clean surfaces. Amongst this chaos of information and ink sat his two closest companions; Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The Heart and Soul of their marvellous triumvirate with Enjolras as the Head. 

“You have returned to us at last? We began to be concerned, for it seemed dear heart that the evening would reach its end entirely before you were able to escape the maelstrom of your thoughts.” Combeferre, his smooth black hair brushed back and bound at the nape of his neck in a neat tail lifted his dark eyes, solemn behind his glasses, to rest on his friend. In those eyes Enjolras could read concern, affection and something more; something which felt uncomfortably like pity.  
“This last meeting or us and ours was… tumultuous. Perhaps we should refrain from speaking on it further tonight? Perhaps-” You should rest. He was unable to speak the words however for Enjolras, with a sharp gesture of his hand, quite soundly cut him off. 

“There is much on my mind. That is all; nothing to concern yourself with.” To his credit, the blond man made a valiant attempt to lift his voice, to fill his tone with something light and airy, yet even to his own ears there was a great deal of lustre lacking, something marred the usual brilliant gloss of his speech.  
“We have such grand ideals, such plans to perfect that it is difficult not to feel the pressure that we all must bear.” It was their habit each week to remain after the meeting reached its conclusion. Together the three of them would dissect each and every remark that had been made and turn that had been taken. They would adjust their plans in line with new information that had been uncovered, and new ideas which seemed to be worth pursuing. Today however… Today the very last thing that the leader of Les amis l’Abaisse wished to do was allow the happenings of the evening to flow once again through his thoughts.  
“I find that perhaps this evening may not be worth further attention. I find that- I believe that all topics raised were well covered at the time- Yes, _Courfeyrac_? Is there something you wish to remark upon?” His tone was sharp. Defensive. He could hear it the very moment the words formed harshly on his tongue.

Both friends were a contrast to Enjolras. Where he was the sun itself, the bright light of midday, they were both touched by the light of dawn and dusk. Where Combeferre was pale with hair like ink, Courfeyrac was warmer in hue, loose curls of dark brown and skin the sun had clearly loved to kiss. The sharp words seemed to bring him no distress at all; a playful smile at once danced its way across his features.

“_Aha_! That is how it is to be again?” There was a teasing lilt to his words and the warning look that Combeferre sent his direction did nothing to convince the warm, sunny soul to silence his foolishness, no matter how clearly the words were silently communicated.   
“You wish to cast the evening from our thoughts, to banish it from the light- Sweep it beneath the rug perhaps?” Hazel eyes shone with amusement, failing in any capacity to wilt under the sapphire fury that they faced when Courfeyrac allowed his eyes to meet Enjolras’.   
“What could possibly cause our leader, a man as fearless in the face of conflict as he is gifted with the oration of the _Gods_ themselves to shrink back from a harsh exchange of words?”

“You are _incorrect_!” Enjolras’ tone was ringing as he answered his friend, one slender hand meeting the top of the table he had moved to lean on with a dull, heavy thud.   
“You speak without _thought_, Courfeyrac! Merely, I imagine for no other reason than to hear the sound of your own _voice_!” Being remarked upon as a God, was there any more sure way to raise Enjolras' ire.

“Wounded! I am Wounded indeed, Enjolras! While I confess my voice is a thing of beauty, the idea that I would not consider in great depth and detail the words it is to bring to life is quite without merit!” 

“Well that being so perhaps you should think _less_! Less about the meaningless happenings of this evening, and instead about the _bigger_ picture! The changes that we know our suffering city cries out for! The foolish shouting of a man with no hope, with no dreams and no faith cannot be allowed to make us _doubt_! To make us question our next steps. Those who cannot see the reality, the _necessity_ of the future we strive for has no place among our number.” The words on Enjolras lips were hot.   
“Courfeyrac while I love and esteem you, you must _not_ time and again bring our thoughts back in this direction of dissension. It will do us no good and I fear, with how often it weighs on the minds of us gathered here, it could even be a detriment to our cause!” As was often the case the vibrant blonds words had driven him to movement, the ringing toll of his voice had from the moment he began been accompanied by long strides across the room. It was only as the last sentence fell silent on his tongue that he stilled again, his eyes turning back to the man with the soft brown curls who, much to Enjolras’ chagrin, was still smiling widely at him. 

“For someone you profess to regard with such disdain, it occurs to me, dearest friend, that you spend an inordinate amount of time in discussion with us about him!” Courfeyrac’s tone was so very airy, light and touched with laughter. His eyes however flicked to Combeferre as the darker haired man reached out to touch his arm; the touch was brushed away.

“Why should I confer with you about _yourself_?" The words were touched with heat, his eyes filled with blue fire as Enjolras spoke again. "I rarely speak of you in such a way and would certainly feel a fool to do so in such a setting as this! Were I to wish to debate your faults I would either find the decency to do so to your face in private, or confess my concerns to Combeferre alone, to doubtlessly be overruled.”

“Ah ah!" Courfeyrac lifted a hand, a scolding finger directed at his golden friend, as radiant in the candle light as he would have been in a sunbeam.  
"Now, we shall not change the subject! At no point in my declaration did I state that you had, that you did, nor that you ever should speak of _me_ in such a way. It was not the topic of myself that I accuse you in this moment of fixating upon. My hair is not dark enough, my eyes the wrong shade and my tone far too free from acerbic cynicism to earn the entirety of your focus, I do most devotedly believe.” For a moment he was silent, the heavy frown that now seemed to touch the faces of both his companions enough to still his tongue.  
“_Bah_! _Fine_. Scowl at me if you will, but I tire of this, I tire of your unhappiness, the way you seem to wilt, your fire to dampen; and I tire of his _misery_! It infects us all!” There was something close to pain in Courfeyrac’s tone as his words reached their concluding crescendo, a drastic change from the humour that had been present only a few moments before. It was a reminder, a stark one at that how at times it was so very easy to forget that under his humour and smiles, Courfeyrac felt as well the same passionate love for their friends and their cause as those who kept themselves in a state more serious. Enjolras found himself compelled to look away, giving his companions some unexpected privacy as Combeferre reached out, rising to his feet to curl his long, strong fingers around Courfeyrac’s wrist as the warmer soul made to stride away from them. The touch was tender, the look on Courfeyrac’s face so open, so wounded and then so soft as his gaze lifted to meet concerned dark eyes. 

Something twisted in the very depths of Enjolras’ stomach, a sensation discomfort, of unease- relations between those of the same gender were not strictly against the laws of the land, indeed, but there were still voices, loud and often numerous in their complaints about the immorality of it all. Regardless of how he felt and what he believed, a childhood among those who would damn it loudly tainted his own reactions. He did not feel disgust or displeasure at what there could be between his friends, no, not that. But a degree of… of fear perhaps? Fear that yet another difficulty could face them. Another patch of instability to make the road of their lives more uneven… besides. A glance over his shoulder revealed the moment Courfeyrac’s hand lifted, his fingers resting lightly on Combeferre’s shoulder. Blue eyes turned away once more. 

Was it fair? Was it fair of him to ask two people such as they, with eyes that may now see and hearts that may hope for more than the conception of a better future? Once again he frowned. They _chose_ to stand beside him, they _chose_ to bear the weight of the cause as well, and without their belief that they could succeed, what were they left with? No. It was not guilt he felt, they knew if they wished to step away, if the cause grew too heavy he would never hold it against them. No… It was jealousy, just the merest pang of it. They were so very close, these three friends. But if there were something between those other two, his dearest companions that he could not share… well. He could not help the slight sting it left him with. If there was more to it than that, now was not the time to begin to pick such sensations apart. Now was not the time to consider other moments where such unpleasant feelings could at times rear their usually hidden heads. 

A soft sound of displeasure caught in Enjolras’ throat and he turned on the spot. Without delay swift steps carried him to his friends sides whereupon an easy arm reached around them both and he held them tight, a nearly desperate embrace. He loved his friends so dearly, so ardently! The thought of hurting them in any way, that his words could cause them pain and displeasure tore at him in that moment. His passions were both a blessing and a curse. That he knew all too well.

“I have been unkind. Once more I left my own dark mood cloud the evening and I am sorry for my words Courfeyrac! You are quite right in each and every particular. These past weeks I have been more thin of skin, less tolerant than ever before and now I have turned with my lash in hand and wounded you. Forgive me? You are right as well to accuse me of allowing the barbed words of… Grantaire’s criticism to wound me and raise my hackles.” Taking a steadying breath he released his friends and allowed himself one step back once more.  
“I have foolishly allowed my frustrations with his words to build to a precipice too unstable to stand- But _Lord_ I am only a _man_! He sees my humanity with more clarity than any other. He sees the foolish hopes of a _mortal_ and in mockery he has named me a _God_! He denies me my dreams in the same breath that he makes me a being all powerful! The hope of my heart he chips away at with words sharper than any chisel, the future ripe with equality that we strive to bring to life he calls a fantasy and each blow of his craftsman's hammer drives it further and further from my grasp. When he hears my proclamations he looks upon my words of inspiration and in a moment he dubs them little more than a story, a _fiction_!” Despair touched his words and the proud features of his beautiful face fell for a moment, his deepest doubts written in each shadow that fell across his pale skin before he carried on.   
“What hope is there that we can achieve such great things, such _necessary_ changes if one who is supposed to be as a friend to us wilfully casts such _damning_ remarks in our faces? I _fear_ what he says. I fear it and it enrages me that I do so. If he is able to cause me doubt in myself, in us, then am I fit to stand here at the head of our group at all?” Every word, every fear that fell from his lips centered around one thing, one soul. One _man_. Enjolras found himself silent at last, that realisation loud enough in his own ears, thrumming in time to beat of his heart, to render the need for further speech quite unnecessary and it was a long drawn out moment before the silence between the triumvirate was once again broken.

“One may consider…” Combeferre began very quietly, drawing hazel and sapphire eyes alike to his face. “What it is about his words that wounds you so dear friend. Were they the words of another would they cause you such an agony of feeling?” 

It was a question that Enjolras felt entirely unable to answer. Thoughts swirled around his mind, vague and unclear and for a moment he closed his eyes, lifting one elegant hand to rest over them. He pressed his thumb and forefinger hard against the delicate skin of his eyelids, holding fast there until vivid colours danced in the darkness. He could see him _smile_. The happy emotion alive on his lips and in his eyes as Grantaire spoke with Jehan, as he shared a joke with Bahorel. The knit of concentration between his brows as his hand chased inspiration across paper with a stick of charcoal or a pencil. The look of mocking derision and disbelief as he cut Enjolras himself off mid sentence to deliver damnation upon his ideas.   
What could he _say_? What could he tell them? Anyone else could have mocked him, could have spoken down to him and he would in all probability have dismissed them as barely worth his time and continued, hoping to educate and change their unfortunate and incorrect standpoint. But Grantaire…? When the words came from his cynical lips...  
“I have no answer for you. I- I do not know. A poor stance to present as one who would lead our cause, but that is all I can say.” He pursed his lips, his golden head bowed for a moment, his expression unreadable for the most part but there was just a hint of sorrow in his clear eyes.

“You should rest, Enjolras. Sleep if you can.” Combeferre had stepped closer once again and his strong hand fell to rest on the vivid red of his friends shoulder.   
“Take yourself home, it will be no hardship for myself and perhaps Courfeyrac also to remain here to tidy up. We can with perfect ease set the room to rights without the necessity of your presence. Perhaps this week you have taken too much upon yourself. We can discuss that further, after you have rested.” He seemed appeased as the blond offered him only a mute nod of his head, no opposition, no resistance. He was tired. He had not realised it until that moment but he felt it to his very core. 

After wishes of goodnight, and the hope of sweet dreams delivered in close to a whisper he turned to absent himself from their company. The brief walk down the stairs and towards the back door of Le Cafe Musain carried with it all the weight and gravitas of a funeral procession. The evening had once again left him drawn, wrung out and aching with the violent whiplash of his own mood and emotions. Stepping out into the rain he felt the first lashing drops spatter against his face, cold, almost cuttingly so it felt as though it could be on the verge of becoming ice. Turning slightly, Enjolras pulled the door closed behind him, satisfied for a moment to hear the latch click and settle into place. The moment of peace was soon broken however as a very slight movement to his right caught his eye and caused him to take a sudden step back, drawing a sharp intake of breath as he did so. He had not expected to see anyone here. What cause could there be for anyone to linger here by an often unused back door of a cafe already hours closed? Especially one set so far down the narrow alley where only the window of the upper floor opened up to cast any light.

“_Grantaire_\- Is that? What is- Why cause have you to be here? The weather? It is some hours since you departed from the gathering.” Since he had all but _chased_ him away, if he were being truthful. More so than ever today he had found the cynics biting words too acerbic, more poisonous and barbed than he would have considered usual. 

“_Enjolras_?” There was a note of surprise to the name, perhaps even concern or something that sounded similar. For a moment Enjolras felt himself come close to relaxing. The knot of tension between his shoulders eased a little and he allowed a flicker of curiosity to settle on his features at the fact his presence seemed to have unsettled Grantaire. The moment did not linger however, the surprise vanished a mere instant later as the customary tone of sardonic amusement spilled once again from the artists lips.

“_Apollo_, leaving so _soon_? The sun is not due to rise for many hours yet, and you? Away to your bed? What a thing it must be for the needs of revolution to have been met so long before the dawn. Unless, _aha_!” A snap of his fingers followed the words, words which were softly slurred; the unmistakable sound of intoxication.  
“Could it be that your own devotion is _wilting_? What a thing it would be for the hooves of Apollo's fiery steeds to be quenched, _extinguished_ before the hope of the people, the banner of change and liberty he pulls behind his chariot has found her moment to spread her wings and take flight.”

Enjolras felt something within his stomach fall, a weight of lead pulling it down as with uncanny accuracy Grantaire was able to mark, and faultlessly strike fully upon the area of his heart most tender and riddled with fears. Had he been a different man, had his pride not held him so rigidly upright and firm within himself, he was certain that his shoulders would have slumped, and it may even have been enough to give him cause to weep. Not Enjolras, however. That would not do. Not the leader of Les amis l’Abaisse. Not here, before the cruel, mocking eyes of the man who had all but brought him down from the lofty heights of his ideals tonight, to look upon the cold and troubled earth and the very real facets of his own mortality. Here he would not give into the human weakness of fear and uncertainty. Instead he lifted his head, tilting his chin very slightly. The very essence of wounded pride and weary majesty.

“Not _tonight_ Grantaire, not tonight. The hour is late and the weather unkind. Whatever pleasure you may have for lurking as you do out here in the cold I do not share in it.” His blond curls were already heavy, darkened with the falling water. It gave him the aire of a tragic hero, a man stood on the stage to be marvelled at and presented with all the love and sympathy an audience possessed. As the water dripped from his curls it seeped as well through the dark red of his jacket. With aching slowness it made its way, spreading down from his shoulders, down his arms and slowly, gradually across his chest. Where it spread it carried with it the morbid likeness of blood slowly seeping from a tragically mortal wound. Tiredness hung on the young mans words like the choking cobwebs in a forgotten crypt. Where there would usually be fire, passion and vivid golden light, tonight there was only the smothering fall of ash; cloaking everything and leaving the world around them dead and grey.   
“I fear tonight you have spoken your part too well. Tonight the victory is yours. Celebrate if you will, for you have brought your Apollo low. Though dawn should in its turn arrive, we may find the darkness lays longer on the land this night, for the Gods chariot is broken, the wheels cracked and the mighty creatures that would once pull it run wild.” He laughed, a bitter, hollow sound and turned his gaze away from Grantaire. 

Enjolras did not see the haunted look enter the artists eyes as he lifted a hand first to brush his sodden, dulled curls from his face and then after to bid Grantaire adieu. With final wish thrown back to him of fair dreams whenever the intoxication he chased took him there, the proud yet sorrowful leader of Les amis l’Abaisse walked off into the darkness and rain, his head still held high, his shoulders sternly squared against the urge to allow them to drop and the blood like soak of water spreading ever further down his back. A God in mortal form he still appeared to Grantaire, even now when he most acutely resembled a wounded angel. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks ever so much for taking the time to read this, I'm currently working on chapter 2!  
If you could take a moment to leave a comment or just click the kudos button, that'd be really helpful to let me know I'm on the right track and such!


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